Mask
by xxWickedWench
Summary: 'The house was a mine field,' he decided. 'One wrong step and everything exploded.' Many thanks to Adrenaline Rush for giving me the idea. This one's for you!


_**Mask**_

It was hard. Very hard, actually. Watching it happen day in and day out, too small to tell him to stop it. The only refuge was school sometimes, or going out to the market with her, or when he was working or drank himself to sleep.

It was unbearable.

The way that, now, after hearing it so much, you've gotten used to the sound of her screaming, of her sadness. You look away when her eyes beg you to step in and help her, though there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

_The house was a mine field,_ he decided. _One wrong step and everything exploded._ Some days he was happy, wanting everyone to go to church and all smiles, kissing his mother and calling her "darling." Other times, he didn't come home for days, and when he did come home, he tore things apart and hit her, screaming the whole time.

They were a middle class family, so there was no fear of backlash from the high class social standings. _Not that it mattered much anymore_, he thought bitterly. They were losing money fast, because of his father's nasty drinking problem.

Patrick was actually rather good in school. He got high marks on nearly everything, because school interested him. He liked learning. Not that it mattered very much to anyone at home. His mother was always trying to keep order and civility and his father never really cared about much anymore.

He couldn't remember a time when things were not the way they were.

Now, Patrick was not a stupid boy. Not at all. Patrick knew enough about his mother's generation to know that it was imperative that she take care of her husband, that she bend to his will and submit wholeheartedly, even though it's not in her best interest. Because it usually never is. Marriage was not about love. It was about convenience and most of the time, to save a family from ruin. Namely, her mother had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and Charles married her to save her name from scandal in her high class family.

There was no love there. But, he wondered, was there ever love?

Patrick was thirteen when it happened. Granted, many a terrible thing happened in his home on a regular basis, but this afternoon was different. He sat quietly on the stairs, listening to them fighting. Or, rather, him hitting her and shouting and her begging for forgiveness for nothing that needed to be forgiven. She's done nothing, and yet she was begging him to forgive her, though it was wasted breath. He continued to strike her.

Patrick had prided himself on learned how to contain his emotions. A mask, if you will. It was easier to feel nothing than to have to face the reality of the fact that he couldn't save his mother from his father.

Something heavy was hitting his mother today, Patrick noted. Usually it was flesh hitting flesh, and he'd gotten used to that sound. It was comforting, because the bruises healed rather quickly. It was like her skin was immune to the pain and patched her up quickly. But not today. Today it sounded thick, and it sounded like it hurt.

"Patrick!" Charles bellowed from the living room.

"Coming, Father," Patrick responded and stood up, swallowing hard, the mask firmly set in place.

There was a reason Patrick never let any emotion slip through. Charles considered emotion weakness and Patrick had the soreness of a cracked rib to show for it from the last time. It was the first, and last, time he'd ever defended his mother in front of his father.

And all he'd said was "She's hurt."

Charles looked at his son when he appeared in the doorway, their blue eyes reflected between each other. Patrick was solemn, unshakeable, and so was Charles. If he permitted himself to look, which he didn't, he'd see his mother lying on the floor, blood trickling from her mouth onto the carpet below.

But he didn't permit himself to look. It was emotion and emotion was _not real_.

Charles came towards his son, resting a heavy, thick hand on his shoulders, a cane in his other hand.

"You see, son," Charles said, as if he were teaching. "This is how you show the women in your life love. And I love your mother very much." He paused. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Patrick's eyes didn't leave his father's.

"Yes, sir," a small voice came from the corner of the room, weighed down by grief and tangible fear.

"You love your mother very much, don't you, Patrick?" Charles asked his son, peering down at him.

Patrick, though smart as he was, was still young. He didn't see the trap.

"Yes, sir. Very much," Patrick responded, his face never flinching.

Charles smiled. "I know you do, son." He then placed the cane into Patrick's hand, who frowned at the blood smeared at the top.

"What's this for?" Patrick asked and then looked at his father. "Sir," he added.

The mask betrayed nothing.

"Show her how much you love her," his father told him, voice steady and unwavering.

Patrick was horrified. In all of his thirteen years, he'd never once been asked to strike his mother. But the heavy hand on his shoulder steered him towards her, to where she lay on the floor, blood on her lips and bruises littering her skin. A large mark was on her jaw and it looked like the cane he now held in his hand.

She was quiet, eyes wide, staring up in shock. Her hair was all over the place, from being knocked around, and her dress was wrinkled. And here was her son, ready to hit her, like his father instructed.

"Do it, Patrick." Charles grit his teeth. "Now."

Patrick was hesitating. More weakness.

The case rose in a hand that was not his own. Patrick closed his eyes and struck with all his might.

Two cries hit his ears at the same time. His mother's cry of alarm and fear. And his father's of sheer agony.

Patrick turned around and realized he'd hit his father with the cane in his hand, not his mother. His eyes wide, watching his father howl in pain, spitting blood everywhere and screaming curse words.

His wild eyes reached his son and Patrick darted around him and his father barreled toward him, shouting.

"Bastard! I'll tan your hide for this! Get back here!" Charles screamed, with many colorful words thrown in between.

But Patrick ran. He held the cane in his hand tightly. His mother was not going to suffer the blows of the cane any longer. Patrick ran and ran until he couldn't anymore.

Or, well. Until he slammed himself into someone.

It was another boy. A tall boy with a red bandana around his neck and a cowboy hat swinging freely behind him.

"Woah there, fella," he said, steadying Patrick with his hands on his shoulders. "Where's the fire?"

Patrick shrugged him off, glaring at the ground slightly, feeling foolish.

"Sorry I hit ya," he muttered.

"S'okay, kid," the boy said. "Name's Kelly. Jack Kelly. You from around here?"

Patrick nearly wrinkled his nose at the hideous New York accent that colored his words. It was annoying and sounded low class. Then again, he was used to the large words used by his classmates at school.

"Yeah. Lived in Manhattan all my life," Patrick told him. "I'm Patrick."

"Good to know," Jack said. "Nice cane. That real gold there on the top?"

Patrick nodded wordlessly.

"So why was ya runnin'?" Jack asked.

"Got a place I can stay?" Patrick asked, not answering the question. "Kinda can't go back to where I came from."

"Sure thing, kid. I'm a newsie," Jack explained. "A bunch of us sell papes to the rich folks in town. Got a Lodgin' House a block away. Sound interestin'?"

"No," Patrick responded dryly. "But I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Good!" Either Jack was a complete idiot, or didn't care that Patrick had been borderline rude.

As they walked together, Jack started speaking again.

"We need to get ya a newsie name. In case whoever you were runnin' from ever finds out you're a newsie. Mine's Cowboy," Jack said.

Patrick shrugged. "I'm not good at nicknames."

"It ain't that hard."

"How 'bout 'Spot'?"

Jack looked at him like he was buffoon. "Like a dog?"

Patrick's eyes flashed in annoyance. "You got a better one?"

"Nope. Spot's fine."

"Then I'm Spot from now on."

"Sounds good to me."

And they shook on it.

* * *

**I feel the need to explain this. You see, the other day I posted on the NML that I was really into Patrick's Mother. You know, that pretty women that sings counterpart with our favorite Manhattan boys? Yeah, her. I really like her and I've been snooping the Net and everyone seems to have this theory that she's Spot's mother. I've been so against that theory that I wrote this story just to prove everyone wrong and...**

**It ended up being about Spot. Talk about Spot on the brain, yeah? xD**

**Anyways. I'm sure it's not very good. It's rather sad, but it's true. And it's based on things very close to my heart, so I know what I'm talking about when I write this.**

**Oh, and this is actually all because of Adrenaline Rush who told me that if I liked her so much, I should write a story about it. And so I did. So thank her, not me.**

**BTW, this was _supposed_ to distract me from writing the next chapter of Vicious. But I'm getting back to it. So all my Spot x Angel fans, don't fret! I haven't forgotten you.**

**If you like it (or hate it) review it. I want to know how to improve.**

**CTB!**

**xx Wicked**


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